Her wrist had healed, although she would carry the scar to the end of her days. As she walked towards the Green Park, her thoughts turned as they usually did to Joseph, the footman. Little did Lizzie know that the vain footman longed to be able to take his precious handkerchief back but could not steal it because Lizzie kept it under her gown, next to her heart. Lizzie wondered what the French maid would be like. What if Joseph fell in love with her?
The sun was setting and the trees in the park cast their long black shadows across the snow. Lizzie stood silently, thinking of Joseph, as the sun turned to red as it sank lower. The snow burned crimson, one glorious blazing sheet of rubies, and then slowly changed to grey with bluish tinges in the hollows.
Lizzie had come to Clarges Street from the orphanage. Her parents had died just after she was born and the servants in Clarges Street had become her adopted family.
She shivered as a sudden wind rattled the skeletal branches of the winter trees. As she turned about to head home, she saw a bundle lying near the edge of the reservoir. In the hope that someone might have dropped some firewood, she went closer – and then drew in a sharp breath of anguish. A mother and child lay half buried in the snow. The child was about three years old, its dead face turned to the darkening sky.
Frozen to death!
She swayed as she remembered the death of Clara, daughter of the second tenants of Number 67. She, too, had been found dead on the edge of the reservoir. Lizzie stumbled away towards the cottage at the gates of the park where two elderly ladies kept the herd of cows that supplied fresh milk to Mayfair. She banged on the door. A tall old lady dressed in the style of Louis XV – high lace cap and gown of brocaded silk – opened the door.
‘Please, mum,’ gabbled Lizzie, ‘there’s a woman and child by the reservoir, and, oh, mum, they’s dead . . . starved and froze.’
‘Indeed,’ said the lady. ‘So inconsiderate. I will tell the rangers. You may go. Wait! Do you know who I am?’
Lizzie bobbed a curtsy. ‘No, mum.’
‘I,’ said the lady, drawing herself up and looking down her long thin nose at Lizzie, ‘am Mrs Searle.’
Lizzie looked blank.
‘I am George Brummell’s aunt.’
Even little Lizzie knew of George Brummell, that famous leader of fashion and close intimate of the Prince of Wales.
‘Yes, you may stare,’ went on Mrs Searle. ‘I started him on his career. He was visiting me after he had just left Eton when the Prince of Wales called on me with the Marquess of Salisbury. The Prince was attracted by George’s nice manners. He said, “As I find you intend to be a soldier I will give you a commission in my own regiment.”’
All at once, remembering the face of the dead child, Lizzie burst into tears.
‘Yes, you may well cry,’ said Mrs Searle. ‘I see you have guessed the tragedy of it. That wicked boy never came near me after I had set his feet on the road to success.’
Lizzie stumbled away, still crying.
Although the other servants tried to comfort her, they were slightly irritated by what they considered Lizzie’s excessive sensibility. Certainly bodies in Mayfair were not so thick on the ground as they were in the less salubrious areas, but with dead bodies lying frozen all over London, and with dead bodies dangling from the gibbets, they privately thought Lizzie over-nice in her feelings, unsuitably so for a scullery maid.
Talk soon turned back to speculation on the character of the new tenants. The fire supplied by the coal taken from Lord Charteris’s cellar warmed their bones.
Rainbird did not consider the taking of the coal as theft, for he could not tell the servants not to sin and then do it himself. He convinced himself that they had merely been borrowing the coal. Palmer had promised him a delivery. When it came they would put it back in the cellar next door.
Unaware of all the discussion and speculation going on about them, the future tenants of 67 Clarges Street prepared for the great exodus to London. Their own home had been let for the period of their absence to an elderly lady who proved to be a match for Mrs Hart when it came to beating down the price. But the fact that her home in Upper Patchett had been let, and at such short notice, did much to allay the pangs of being outwitted and outdone in Mrs Hart’s breast.
Never for a moment did Jane think there would be any question of leaving her behind. But horror upon horrors, the old lady, a Mrs Blewett, who was to take their home expressed a wish to find a young female companion. Mrs Hart’s eyes gleamed and she promptly suggested Jane – Jane who sat with her dreamworld of London and her possible meeting with Beau Tregarthan falling about her ears.
‘It is not as if you were to make your come-out,’ said Mrs Hart.
‘I don’t want an unwilling gel,’ snapped Mrs Blewett, who had called to inspect the linen closet and assure herself the linen would not be damp. Mrs Blewett was fortunately not in need of sea breezes. Rather, she was fleeing from them as she lived in Brighton, and had let her home for a much larger sum than she was paying Mrs Hart.
‘You will find Jane a congenial companion,’ said Mrs Hart while her mind busily worked out the money she would save on Jane’s gowns, what exactly she should charge for Jane’s services, and that the whole arrangement would go a long way to defraying the expense of the smart new French maid. Lady Doyle had said that a French maid was de rigueur.
Euphemia looked worried. She teased and tormented Jane, but, since she had no friends, she dreaded the thought of being launched into society with no one of her own age. Besides, Jane was an excellent foil for Euphemia’s beauty.
‘No,’ said Mr Hart suddenly from his seat by the fire. ‘Jane’s going with us.’
All the ladies stared at him in surprise. Mrs Hart looked as amazed as if her wig stand had suddenly up and expressed an opinion. ‘Mr Hart,’ she said, casting an amused and tolerant look at Mrs Blewett as if to say ‘these men’, ‘Jane will do very well with Mrs Blewett.’
Mr Hart rose to his feet. ‘Jane’s going,’ he snapped. ‘Let that be an end of the matter.’ He strode from the room.
There was a long embarrassed silence. Mrs Hart fought to conceal her surprise at her usually silent husband’s bid to assert himself. Then she gave a little shrug. ‘That seems to be the way of it, Mrs Blewett. Mr Hart is very fond of our younger daughter.’
Mr Hart had previously shown little interest in either girl.
Jane let out a slow sigh of relief.
After Mrs Blewett had taken her leave and Mrs Hart fussed off to see what could possibly have driven her husband to voice an opinion for once in his life, Euphemia and Jane were left alone.
‘I’m glad you are coming,’ said Euphemia, giving her sister an impulsive hug. ‘It is all rather terrifying, you know.’ There was an almost comical expression of surprise on Euphemia’s face. She had not been in the way of feeling in the slightest nervous when faced with social occasions before. In fact her bold manner at local assemblies usually verged on the indecent.
‘The Season?’ said Jane, round-eyed. ‘Why, you have no need to be afraid, Euphemia. The gentlemen will fall over like ninepins when they see you.’
More in charity with her sister than she had been for a long while, Euphemia gave her another hug. ‘Nonetheless,’ she said, ‘it is not as if I have any experience of the beau monde. I know I am beautiful, but I do not have any jewels. Mama is so clutch-fisted.’
‘As to that,’ said Jane, who studied the social columns, ‘it is not at all the thing for debutantes to wear elaborate jewelry. Besides, you will marry a very rich man and have all the jewels you desire.’
‘You must do everything in your power to help me,’ said Euphemia. ‘I do not want the gentlemen to take us in dislike because of that forthright tongue of yours. And papa is awkward in the saloon.’
‘We have never seen papa in grand company, but he met many great men when he was serving in the navy so no doubt he knows how to go on better than any of us,’ said Jane.
‘Pooh! Stop
sounding as if you know everything,’ snapped Euphemia, a petulant look marring her beauty. ‘Besides, mama will not waste time inviting you to balls and parties. She said so. She does not want to waste money on a wardrobe for you.’
‘I think it is very unfair to be continually passed over,’ said Jane in a low voice.
‘It is not your fault you are so plain,’ said Euphemia indifferently. ‘Mama said to papa t’other day that she would take you to the local assemblies when I am puffed off. Squire Bascombe is said to be looking for a young bride.’
‘Squire Bascombe is fifty, a widower, and has daughters older than I,’ exclaimed Jane in horror.
Euphemia’s unusual warmth towards her sister had now completely gone. ‘You always were a depressing little thing,’ she said, crossing to the glass to pat her curls.
Jane stormed out of the room. How lovely it would be to be able to put Euphemia’s pretty nose out of joint . . . just once.
That night, after Jane had fallen asleep, her dreams took an odd turn. She dreamt she was walking down a London street with Euphemia. Beau Tregarthan drove past in his curricle. Now, in previous dreams, Euphemia had faded into a rosy mist while Beau Tregarthan’s blue eyes gazed adoringly down into Jane’s. But this time, he reined in his horses and sprang down from the curricle. He was no longer quite such a shadowy figure as in previous dreams, but very alive, very attractive, almost real. He advanced on the sisters, his eyes sparkling. He came to a stop in front of them. His blue eyes gazed with admiration on . . . Euphemia. It was Jane who felt herself fading away into the shadows beyond the circle of light that surrounded the pair.
She awoke with a start. The dream had been so vivid, so real – and so horribly possible. She climbed down from her bed and lit a candle from the rushlight in its pierced canister. Carrying the candle, she walked to the glass and stared at her reflection. Plain Jane stared back. With a muffled sob, she blew out the candle and plunged headlong into bed, burying herself under the blankets and trying to blot out that bright dream image of Euphemia with Beau Tregarthan.
FOUR
Like dragonflies the hansoms hover,
With jewelled eyes to catch the lover.
The streets are full of lights and loves,
Soft gowns and flutter of soiled doves.
The human moths about the light
Dash and cling close in dazed delight,
And burn and laugh, the world and wife
For this is London, this is life!
PAUL VERLAINE, BALLAD OF LONDON
The rigours of the winter were over at last as Lord Tregarthan sat at his desk and flicked through a pile of gilt-edged invitations. Behind him sat his friend, Mr Peter Nevill, a small, thin, angry man whom many of the ton considered an odd friend for the easy-going and elegant Beau Tregarthan to have.
Perhaps it was Mr Nevill’s very lack of social graces and attitudes that attracted the over-courted and famous Beau, but then it was hard to tell what went on behind his handsome face and smiling blue eyes.
He had fought in the wars against Napoleon and had sold out after being invalided home. He had stated his intention of finding a wife at the Season, starting a family, and then taking himself off to the wars again.
Mr Nevill was a first-lieutenant in the navy, enjoying the first leave he had had in a long time. Both men had been to school together. Then, the larger Lord Tregarthan had been Mr Nevill’s champion, and Mr Nevill still returned that championship with a fierce devotion.
The news that the famous beau was back on the London scene had gone round the drawing rooms and saloons of the elegant like wildfire . . . hence the small avalanche of invitations.
‘Who is this Mrs Hart, 67 Clarges Street?’ demanded Lord Tregarthan laconically. ‘Keeps sending me cards.’
‘Odd woman,’ said Mr Nevill. ‘Rumour has it she took that unlucky house because it was cheap.’
‘Unlucky?’
‘Yes. Duke of Pelham hanged himself there, one of the tenants found their daughter dead in the Green Park, another lot lost all their money or something. Ones who took it last year were a Mr Sinclair and his daughter, Fiona. She married the Marquess of Harrington and they went off on a long honeymoon and are now missing. Old Sinclair’s said to have braved the whole of Boney’s army to go looking for them. Unlucky house. This Hart female took it not knowing about its reputation. Very pushing. Had to be set down. Embraced Sally Jersey in the Park, saying, “I am a friend of Lady Doyle.” Lady Jersey pushed her away. Never heard of this Lady Doyle. Neither has anyone else.’
‘Has she a marriageable daughter?’
‘Ah, well, that’s another thing. Daughter is a diamond of the first water. They’re holding their first rout next week. Some going out of curiosity, but no one important.’
‘It would amuse me to meet this daughter,’ said Lord Tregarthan. ‘Very few beauties around.’
‘Family’s bad ton,’ said Mr Nevill. ‘Well, that is, if the mother is anything to go by.’
‘I would rather make up my own mind, Peter, as to whether anyone is bad ton or not. Society can be very cruel. Also, it would amuse me to see the inside of this unlucky house.’
‘I’ll go with you, if you like. But no one else of consequence will be there.’
‘That should be refreshing.’
‘But, o’ course, if they know you are going, they’ll all go.’
Lord Tregarthan smiled sweetly. ‘Then let us not tell them, Peter. Let us see this haunted house in a modicum of peace and quiet.’
But, alas, for Lord Tregarthan’s hopes of a quiet evening. Mrs Hart could not believe that Lady Doyle had been lying to her. After all, she had paid Lady Doyle quite a large sum of money to buy those gifts for the ton, and the present to Mr Brummell of one snuff box had cost so much it had made Mrs Hart wince.
Although she was beginning to have a dim suspicion that Lady Doyle had pocketed the money without buying any gifts, Mrs Hart accosted the famous Mr Brummell when she had come across that arbiter of fashion walking along Pall Mall.
Had Mr Brummell not had a weakness for pretty females not yet turned twenty, and had Mrs Hart not been accompanied by Euphemia, then Mr Brummell would probably have given her the cut direct. But no sooner had his eyes fallen on Euphemia’s enchanting face than he swept off his hat and made Mrs Hart his best bow in return to her almost over-familiar greeting.
Mrs Hart, elated, begged him to attend her rout, adding that she hoped he had received the snuff box she had sent him.
Now, by coincidence, the Duchess of Devonshire had sent Mr Brummell the present of a solid-gold snuff box inlaid with diamonds, which had arrived only that morning. But she had forgotten to put a card in with it. Mr Brummell, who had been wondering who had sent him such a magnificent present, smiled graciously on Mrs Hart, thanked her warmly, and said he would be delighted to attend her rout.
Flushed with triumph, Mrs Hart and Euphemia moved on. ‘Everyone will come now,’ said Mrs Hart. ‘I am so relieved to find Lady Doyle actually sent him the snuff box in my name. I confess I was beginning to wonder if she were not, after all, the most consummate liar we have met.’
‘Well, Jane always said she told fibs.’
‘Pooh! What does Jane know?’
‘Will Jane be attending the rout?’ asked Euphemia.
‘No, of course not. I have enough expense as it is without finding her a new gown.’
Euphemia bit her lip and glanced sideways at her mother. She did not want to admit to her mother that she was frightened of her forthcoming debut. But if Jane went, Euphemia would feel comfortably superior. She did not know that she often leaned on her younger sister’s greater strength of character.
‘I think it might be marked if your other daughter did not attend,’ said Euphemia. ‘Why not get that sly French maid to earn her keep for a change? She could alter one of my old silks to fit Jane.’
‘Perhaps you have the right of it,’ said Mrs Hart reluctantly. ‘Servants are such a worry. Rainb
ird, the butler, seems very respectful and very well versed as to how to go on – although I must admit I was shocked when he pointed out to me I was expected to pay the staff extra wages. “Fustian,” I said. But Rainbird told me that Lord Charteris, for example, always pays his servants extra for the Season and he hinted that upper servants do gossip and it might get about . . .’
Her voice trailed off into silence when she realized Euphemia was not listening.
The fact was that Rainbird had quickly learned how to manage Mrs Hart. At first, she had tried to make MacGregor produce gourmet meals on the smallest amount of money possible and had reduced Mrs Middleton to tears by quarrelling over pennies and halfpennies in the housekeeping books. Mrs Hart had been further incensed to learn that Palmer expected her to pay the new increased servants’ tax, the new rate being fifteen shillings a year per male servant; females, like horses, being kept pretty much at the old tax level.
Rainbird had stepped in. Copying the most condescending manner of several of the worst butlers he had met, he set about putting Mrs Hart in her place. There would be Talk, said Rainbird firmly, if it got about that the food allowance and the servants’ wages were not those of a ton household. And so he went on until life became more comfortable for the servants.
In fact, all the servants would have been happy had it not been for Felice, the French maid. Lizzie was as wary of her as if she had been some strange foreign animal like an orangutan. Yet Felice did not look in the least frightening, nor for that matter did she appear markedly foreign. She was a small neat woman of about thirty years. Everything about her seemed to be curved. Her eyelids curved, her mouth was curved in a perpetual half-smile, her dark-brown hair curved in two wings on either side of her face. She was round-shouldered and deep-bosomed. She had a tiny waist and small hands and feet. She said very little and seemed constantly employed. Although Mrs Hart had given instructions that the maid’s meals were to be served to her in her room, Felice had chosen to join the other servants in the hall. It was not as if she particularly appeared to enjoy their company although her large black eyes gave nothing away. What made the females of the staff uneasy was the way she appeared to listen to every word as she bent her smooth head over a piece of sewing, for Felice’s hands were busy even at mealtimes.
Plain Jane Page 4